


Training

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only fourteen days since his activation, and First Aid is sent to train with Ratchet.</p><p>Contains: mention of drug taking, non-consensual medical experiments, drinking, and a bit of vomitousness.</p><p>A quartex is stated on the wiki to be roughly one Earth month in IDW, although it’s used in the G1 cartoon with no meaning attached. I’ve pinched it for this because I like the sound of it ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training

First Aid peered around the workshop, his palms itching. No way anyone could work in this mess. It was disgusting; parts heaped upon parts, the lower ones oxidising from age, and over everything lay a dust-clogged oily smear. Sure, his own workspace wasn’t a paragon of tidiness, but it was nothing compared with this.

“Well, there you are!” A mech leapt up from the chaos, causing an avalanche of dead metal. “Aren’t you just the cutest little diode!”

“Training!” First Aid squeaked, leaping back. His aft hit a bench, the reverberation pounding through his head. Oh frag, not again. He should never have left his stash in his room; what he wouldn’t do for a stim virus right about now.

“You OK there?” Ratchet cried. It had to be Ratchet. Who else would be hiding under a heap of corroded metal in Ratchet’s own workshop? The mech shook himself free, his smile wide and incongruously clean armour shining, then headed over to First Aid. “Let’s take a look at you!”

“Training?” First Aid repeated, and tried not to cringe. Slag, Ratchet was loud; his voice cut right through First Aid’s CPU and made the pounding feel more like a drill. It didn’t help when Ratchet grabbed his arms and started prodding him.

“Mind the paintjob,” First Aid grumbled, but his tanks chose that moment to rebel against the cocktail of energon additives he’d poured into them the night before, and he swayed, suddenly queasy.

“Nice arrangement,” Ratchet commented. “Good couplings, tough finish. Here, lemme…”

First Aid grabbed the bench, and tried not to purge as Ratchet opened up his maintenance hatch. “Wha’…” he began, but it faded to giggles as Ratchet began to root around inside. Unfortunately, he could only focus on one thing at once – the tickling, or trying not to purge – and something had to give.

Ratchet pulled back, only narrowly avoiding getting thrown up on. “ _Oh_ , that’s grim. What are they giving you to drink, slurry?”

“…’periment,” First Aid groaned, but at least the queasiness was fading. “Better now.”

“Uhuh.” Ratchet didn’t look convinced. He closed up First Aid’s hatch and moved onto his back. “You ever thought about spines?” he said. “A row of spines all down your arms. Like poison darts. You could shoot them at your enemies.”

First Aid shook his head. That actually sounded pretty good. But he had his orders. “No upgrades,” he said. “Prime says.”

Ratchet’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. Oh well.”

“But you gotta train me or something. You got any coolant? My mouth tastes like exhaust.”

“On the side,” Ratchet pointed at a tank that looked older than he was.

First Aid gave it a wary look, but it was either that or taste his own purge for the rest of the cycle. “The boss did tell you I was coming?” he said, and went straight for the spigot. No point looking for a clean cup.

“Sure!” Ratchet replied. “I’m only sad he didn’t send you down before. So much work, so little time. Could have done with an extra pair of hands. Or four, if he’d let me graft you a few more… How long have you been online now?”

“Almost half a quartex,” First Aid responded. He released the coolant directly into his mouth and gargled it a bit, then realised he had nowhere to spit it out.

“Frag, really? Thought they’d had you lot up and running ages ago.” Ratchet’s expression of wonderment turned into a smirk. “Just use the floor, you already purged all over it.”

First Aid shrugged; that was fine by him. And yeah, that felt better. His head was still pounding, and he craved a stim card like crazy, but he felt kinda… clean inside. It was weird. “You know _what_ you gonna teach me?” First Aid asked.

“I sure do,” Ratchet said. “Come this way.”

What First Aid had taken for Ratchet’s workshop really wasn’t. It was storage, a dumping ground, the place other mechs left him tribute in the hope that when it was their turn he’d give them something more than a saw for a hand.

His real workshop was glorious. Not exactly spotless, and far from tidy, but the shelves were packed with jar upon jar of liquids First Aid didn’t even know the names of (and wanted instantly to taste). Racks of tools and gleaming, clean assorted spares lined the walls, and a row of medical bunks occupied the centre of the floor.

Only one held a patient. He was unconscious, but it wouldn’t matter if he woke. The chains were tight and strong, and Ratchet had taken the added precaution of removing his vocorder.

“They can get a bit over-excited,” he explained. “Especially when they wake up halfway through. Hey _don’t put that in your mouth!_ ”

First Aid paused, his glossa almost touching the rim of a cube. “Huh?” No taste testing the liquids? That was disappointing. He gestured at the patient. “Can I put it in _his_ mouth?”

Ratchet grinned, and it was the happiest smile First Aid had ever seen. “Sure,” he said. “When he wakes up.” He took the cube out of First Aid’s hands and patted his shoulder tire. “I like your programming,” he commented. “You’re gonna fit in here just fine.”


End file.
